


can't take the sky from me

by Phoenix_Writes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (also it/its pronouns because we're projecting), (for now at least), Captain Martin Blackwood, First Mate Tim, Found Family, He/Him and They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Mechanic Gerry, Melanie is still blind, Multi, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pilot Sasha, Scars, Space Flight, everything is slow burn unless otherwise specified, martin is really really competent okay, obviously, season 1 gang but Gerry is here too, sometimes a family is a bunch of space outlaws all packed into a space RV, the not-them is named Sasha but no one's dying or dead, tma but Firefly AU, you thought i'd make Jon captain, you were incorrect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Writes/pseuds/Phoenix_Writes
Summary: The crew of the Watcher is a strange bunch. They'll take any job; the weirder, the better. When they pick up a mystery on a nameless moon just outside the central planets, they get a little more than they bargained for.- or -Jon is trying to solve a mystery. A missing person, in fact. Who's missing? Well, his name's Elias.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oakleaf_bearer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oakleaf_bearer/gifts).



Martin was having a good day, which was quite the rarity. The weight of his gun at his hip and Tim's overconfident swagger had been enough to keep the latest job from going downhill, and the crew had voted unanimously to make a pit stop on one of Nanshe's moons. With Sasha and Tim off resupplying on fuel and food, and Gerry picking over the market for spare parts, Martin was free to sit in a pub and keep an eye on the _Watcher_. 

As Martin reaches for his next drink, somebody sits down directly to his right. They wave the barkeep over, shedding their goggles and hood. 

"Where've you been? Nowhere on this rock to warrant that getup," Martin says, leaving plenty of room for the stranger to ignore him. 

Instead, they laugh. "Everywhere warrants it, if you've got reason to hide your face." 

"Fair enough," Martin says. 

"You're Captain Blackwood," says the stranger. "Peter Lukas's boy." 

Martin's jaw does something that only happens when he hears that name. He ignores it. 

"As close as you're like to find," he says, and knocks back the rest of his drink. 

The stranger puts a handful of cash and a slip of paper on the bar between them. Their hand is scarred and pockmarked and the color of teakwood, with fine fingers that seem quick and sure. 

"What's this?" 

"Read it, take the cash, and tell me that you can help me." The stranger's hand shakes when they pick up their drink. 

Martin leaves the money on the bar. The note, on the other hand, is now his business. 

It's written on the kind of fine rice paper you only get on the central planets, stamped with some kind of family seal and a character too small to properly read. Martin is almost afraid he's going to rip the paper. Inside is one sentence. 

_find_ _him._

The stranger drops an ID photo onto the page. It's a young man with dark hair, a pair of flashy earrings, and a sardonic twist to his mouth. A boy, really. He couldn't be older than twenty. 

Martin folds the note and drops it back on the bar. 

"Has he got a name? Have you got some information on your employer?" 

The stranger leans in, pointing to the seal stamped into the paper. "That's the Lukas seal. It's a little worn out, but still clear enough. The kid's name is Elias." 

"Does he have a last name?" 

"Someone scrubbed it from the records. they did a pretty poor job of it, too." 

"Poor enough to let someone follow their tracks?" 

"Not that poor. All I got was what they did and when they did it." 

"Do you have any leads at all? I don't want to take my ship on some wild goose chase." 

"I know where I need to go next, if that's what you're asking." 

Martin sits back. The stranger has a mane of graying hair and a narrow, suspicious face. One of their eyes is bottle glass green. The other is clouded amber. The marks on their hands apparently cover most of their body as well, because the teakwood color of their face and neck is traced with the same silvered scars. 

"You got a name, stranger?" 

"Jon," they say. 

"Pronouns?" 

"He/they/it." 

Pushing his glass back across the bar, Martin stands. The stranger scrambles to his feet as well. 

"Well," Martin says, "I'll have to round up the crew and have a talk with them about it." 

The stranger nods eagerly. 

"And then we'll have to talk about compensation." Martin shrugs his jacket on, and winds his scarf around his neck. "Why don't you wait here, and I'll come get you when the crew's all set." 

The stranger nods again. It sits back at the bar, reaching for the cash and the clues. 

Martin pays for his drinks and steps out into the street. The city here is dense, the air acrid with exhaust fumes and electricity, and the road signs are almost worse than nothing. The flow of the crowd carries Martin the direction he needs to go. 

Tim picks up his comms on the first ring. 

"Hey boss! we're almost set over here," he says over the background chatter of the marketplace. 

"Good," says Martin. "Get on back to the ship as soon as you're done, we've got a new job to consider." 

"Will do," he says. "see you in twenty." 

"Good," Martin says, stepping back out of the flow of traffic. The _Watcher_ sits like a huge metallic insect beside the other, sleeker ships, but Martin honestly doesn't give a shit about them. He unlocks and opens the door as the comms ring. 

Gerry picks up, finally, the second time Martin dials. 

"Gerry," he says, shutting the door behind him. "Finish up and get back to the ship; we've got a new job to consider." 

"On my way now," Gerry says. 

"Don't lie to me, Gerry." 

"Alright, alright," he says. There's a sound like metal being dropped back onto a pile of more metal. " _now_ I'm on my way." 

"Good man," Martin says, and hangs up. 

He takes a second to appreciate the dusty quiet of his ship at port. Breathes for a minute without interruption. 

Then he sets to checking all the little nooks and crannies of the ship, making sure that everything's battened down and ready to go. He does a quick sweep of the kitchen, noting a broken latch and a loose hinge. The shuttles are both secure and set to go, as is the engine (as far as he can tell; Gerry's had his fun with that part of the _Watcher_ ) and the infirmary. 

Before he knows it, Gerry is knocking around in the cargo bay. Sasha and Tim appear moments later, halfway through an affectionate spot of bickering. 

"Alright everyone," Martin says, stepping into the bay. "Looks like you all made it back safe." 

Gerry, having draped his entire lanky body over a couple of crates, sits up. "Sure did," he says. 

"Good. Anyhow, I was approached today with quite a novel job." 

At this, Tim and Sasha's metaphorical ears prick up. 

"We'd be assisting in a search for a missing person," Martin says. "And providing transportation for the main person on the job." 

"Sounds good to me, boss." Tim says. 

"Seconded," says Sasha. 

Gerry shrugs, which Martin takes as agreement enough for now. 

"Alright then," he says. "Get her ready to go! I'll go fetch our mysterious detective." 

Gerry hops down from the crates, heavy boots landing squarely on the floor. "Weren't we planning to pick up some passengers down on Nanshe?" 

"That's our next stop. Don't die while I'm gone." 

"We'll do our best, boss man." Tim throws him a lazy salute. 

"Get moving, you lazy bums," Martin calls as the door slides shut behind him as the crew laughs. 

The crowd picks him up just as easily, and within five minutes he's back at the dive bar where his detective sits. 

"Right-o, Jonny," he says, and nods at the door. "Time to go." 

Jon tries to stand and trips over the barstool. Trying to catch itself on the bar, Jon bangs its shoulder, now clearly headed for the floor. 

Instead of letting him fall, Martin takes a step and catches him. 

"Christ, Jon," he says. "Don't get so excited over little old me." 

Jon blinks at his chest, then looks up at him. "You're faster than you look." 

It flushes immediately, but Martin laughs. "I get that a lot." 

"Quit flirtin' in front of my bar! Buy a drink or leave," the barkeep barks at them.

Jon flushes even darker. 

Martin sets them on their feet. "There you are. Come on, and don't get lost, now." 

He holds the door for Jon, who's apparently so small that their head barely clears martin's shoulder. For a minute, Martin's afraid that the crowd will just sweep them away, but Jon stays close at his heels. 

Tim is waiting in the cargo bay, just like always. 

"This is the detective, then," he says, grinning. 

"Show it to a room, please," Martin says, shooting him a look. "Please." 

"Can do, boss." Tim extends a hand to Jon. "Nice to meet you." 

Jon shakes his hand, an inscrutable look in his eye. 

"Alright," says Tim. "Follow me, detective." 

Jon huffs, rolling his eyes, but follows. Martin shuts the door, locks it, and heads up towards the cockpit, leaving his jacket and scarf in his bunk on the way.

"Sasha," he says, walking over to check the nav screens. "Take us down to the surface; we're going to pick up some passengers." 

"Right-o, boss." She throws a switch and glances at him briefly. "Hand me the radio?" 

Martin reaches for the receiver and passes it down to her. 

"Thanks boss," she says, and hits the button. "Gentleman and bastards, buckle your seatbelts. We'll be leaving atmo in T-minus one minute." 

Handing the receiver back to Martin, Sasha gets going on the takeoff sequence. 

"What's our ETA on Nanshe?" 

Sasha blows a ringlet out of her face, hands moving too fast to tuck it back into her bandana. "Couple of hours? This moon's on an elliptical orbit and we've just hit the top of it." 

"Sounds good. Can I get you anything?" 

"All good here, boss." 

"Radio if anything goes off the rails," Martin says. 

"Will do," she says, and grins at him. "Give Stoker a kiss from me." 

"Maybe some other time," he says, returning her grin. 

"Alright. Get lost, Cap." 

Martin gives her a joking salute before heading off down the hall. There's a second or two of lag between the moon letting them go and the artificial gravity kicking in with a jolt, just as he passes through the kitchen. 

"Hey Gerry!" Martin calls, letting go of the door frame. 

"Yeah, I know!" Comes the voice from down by the engine. "On it now!" 

Grabbing a protein bar, Martin heads down towards the extra rooms. 

One of them is open, and Tim is leaning on the frame, obviously halfway through a bad joke. 

"Tim," Martin says, closing the last bit of distance and glancing into the room. Jon is stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed. "Why don't we leave Jon to settle in. Sasha said something about a kiss..?" 

Tim stands, as good as in the cockpit already. "Catch you later, detective. My wife is calling," he says, and heads off down the hall. 

Jon snorts ungracefully and starts shedding his cloak. 

"Kitchen's just through there," Martin says, pointing. "the cockpit and crew bunks are through the hall on the other side. If you have any questions, Tim and I will be around. Sasha's usually up in the cockpit and Gerry stays back by the engine, if you're interested." 

"Thank you," Jon says. "I'll be sure to remember that." 

"We'll be on Nanshe in just a few hours, so make yourself comfortable until then." Martin glances around. Jon had been carrying a surprising amount. After piling most of it at the foot of the bed, it's even smaller than it first appeared. "We'll only be there to pick up some passengers, so you can tell us all about where you need to go once we're back in the air, alright?" 

"Sounds good." Jon chews on their lip for a minute. 

"Well, if that's everything you need," Martin says. "I'll be up in the front." 

Jon nods, turning back to their collection of various things. 

Martin spends the journey with one of his books. Something from Earth-that-was, he's pretty sure, but it doesn't really matter. It's good enough to hold his attention for an hour or two. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> work title from the theme of Firefly.
> 
> This is the first time I've used multiple pronouns for a single character in writing, so bear with me as i figure out the flow (since i also use they/it i feel like i should know what i'm doing but oh well).
> 
> Who do you think they'll be picking up planetside? :)
> 
> drop a comment if I made any spelling/grammar/tense mistakes, you like this chapter (or this fic), or you just want to say hi! 
> 
> \- Phoenix


	2. Chapter 2

Nanshe is almost as nice as the central planets. Which is to say that the crew of the _Watcher_ were very uncomfortable, given that there were no less than one hundred and seventeen places on their ship where contraband could and had been hidden at one point or another. 

Martin has Gerry stick with the ship to collect passengers. Anyone who was put off by his spiky, heavily tattooed appearance wouldn't do well on the _Watcher_ , anyway. 

Martin and Tim go down to Jude's. She's a nasty one, certainly, but she's flexible and has quite the collection of jobs on hand. It helps that her boss, Montague, usually plays good cop. 

Ducking into the checkered shade of Jude's back alley office, Martin glances over to check that Tim is keeping one eye on the street. It wouldn't do to get hemmed in with Jude, or Montague, for that matter. Good cop didn't mean much when it came to this lot. 

"Ah, Captain Blackwood!" 

Jude's strident voice rounds the corner before she does, and Martin has to remind himself that while Jude is short, she could still carry him a mile without breaking a sweat. 

“Jude,” he says, nodding once. Being nice never gets him anywhere with her.

“Looking for a job, Blackwood?”

“Not as such,” he says. “But we will be soon. We might be bouncing around a bit; good setup for running goods wherever they need to go.” 

“So you’re asking to be the mule?” 

“I’m asking you to drop us a line if and when we ping you.” Martin glances around, ensuring that he’s making the right amount of eye contact. And keeping an eye on the people Jude’s got in each corner. “May be soon, may be later. Might be never.” 

Jude opens her mouth, some kind of fire in her eyes. It doesn’t mean much; there’s always a fire in Jude. 

Martin lifts a finger. 

“We need no guarantees. Just a promise that if there’s work to be done, you’ll hire us for the run.” 

Jude takes a second, eyes glittering in the shifting sunlight. 

Tim takes half a step towards Martin. Time to get moving; Tim never gets antsy when it’s showtime, and Martin knows it. 

His hand drifts down to his hip. Putting it in his pocket would be odd, but so much as touching his gun would end in a firefight, so he just waits, his right hand just inches from his gun. 

Jude nods and sits down on a squat steel barrel. Waving a hand, she leans back against the cinderblock wall behind her. 

“Sounds good to me, fellas.” With a sharp glance at Tim, she kicks her feet up onto the edge of the board that, set down on a couple more barrels, served as a card table. “No promises.” 

“Understood,” Martin says, and turns to leave. 

Tim stays close behind him, all but vibrating with the tension. 

Under the hot afternoon sun, most of the foot traffic had dissipated. It’s easy enough for Tim and Martin to head back the way they came. 

“I don’t like her,” Tim mutters as they dodge a rickety hovercraft. 

“Who, Jude? I don’t think anyone likes her. Except her wife,” he says. It’s too true to laugh at. “Anyhow, she’s a decent contact, and always pays, so we don’t have to like her.” 

“Yeah, well,” Tim grumbles. 

Martin does laugh at this, and leans down slightly to knock shoulders with Tim. 

“Settle down, soldier. We’ve got some time yet before we’re safe to slander Jude Perry, or Agnes Montague.” 

Tim huffs, but gives him a friendly knock in return. 

Gerry, lounging in the shade of the ramp, waves as they approach. 

“Hey boss,” he says. “Tim.” 

“Hey, Gerry. Anybody bite?” 

Tim stops at the screen, checking the destination and the passenger log. Martin head inside, and Gerry hops up to follow him, tucking both hands in his pockets. 

“Oh yeah,” he says. “An honest to god companion showed up, asking to rent a shuttle! I wanted to ping you, but Sasha said not to, so-“ 

“Where are they now?” 

“Sasha’s entertaining,” he says. “Don’t know where they’re at now, but -“ 

“Good work, Gerry,” Martin says. “Tim can take over for you, if you want to go take a pass at the engine while we’re still on the ground.” 

With a passing salute, Gerry heads off towards the engine, braid swinging behind him. 

Without turning around, Martin calls back to Tim, who’s just made it back inside. “Tim! Take over the welcoming committee!” 

Tim nods. “Roger!” 

Dialing his comms, Martin heads towards one of the shuttles. There’s a fair chance Sasha’s up there with their newest guest. 

She picks up on the third ring.

“What can i do for you, Captain?” 

“Location? I’d like to meet this companion Gerry told me about,” he says, taking a cursory look inside the shuttle. It’s empty. 

“That snitch! I told him not to ping while you were out -“ 

“location, Sasha.” 

“right-o,” she says. “We’re in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” he says, and hangs up.

It doesn’t take long to get to the kitchen. Jon’s rummaging in a cupboard (the one with the loose latch, Martin’s pretty sure), and Sasha is sat at the table with a woman who’s apparently her exact opposite. 

Sasha looks up at him, and the companion turns. Where Sasha’s hair is an ebony cloud of ringlets, the companion has fine blonde hair as straight as corn silk. Where Sasha’s skin is a dark brown, the companion is as pale as porcelain. 

“Sasha,” Martin says. “Care to introduce us?” 

Sasha grins. “Cap, meet Sasha, a genuine companion.” 

“Sasha.” Martin looks between them, and addresses the companion. “Your name is Sasha?” 

“Yes,” they say, and raise one narrow brow. 

“Pronouns, Sasha?” 

“She/they.” 

“Lovely. I hear you’re interested in renting a shuttle?” 

“I am. Sasha here has already shown me a shuttle, and it certainly meets my standards.”

”What’re your terms?” 

Martin takes a seat. Negotiations take longer than he’s willing to stand around for. 

She smiles at him. Her mouth is painted the blue of patterned china cups. “Autonomy. As long as nothing is damaged or destroyed, that is.” 

“Sounds reasonable,” Martin says. 

“I’ll pay quarterly, or whenever I’m on board.”

Her amber eyes shift slightly in the light. Colored contacts, or biomechanical prosthetics. Martin can’t quite tell which. 

“That also sounds reasonable.” 

“Then we have an agreement?” 

“I believe so,” Martin says, and extends a hand. 

They shake. The companion smiles again, showing how her canines are sharpened to a glittering, pearly edge. 

Martin glances over. Jon is watching them from behind the counter, arms folded across its chest. His eyes flicker between the Sashas, then focus on Martin, meeting his gaze. They're trying to tell him something, Martin's sure, but he doesn't have a chance to figure it out before they turn and head back toward their room. 

"I will need a deposit," Martin says, turning back to the companion. Sasha. That isn't going to make his brain melt. 

She produces a set of prayer beads. They're a dark red, though the wood grain is still apparent, and glossy. The miniature cross has the barest suggestion of a figure on it, worn away by time and prayer. 

"They're antique. Earth-that-was," she says. "Or so the historians tell me." 

Martin opens a hand, and she drops the beads into his palm. As he examines them (pretending to know what the hell he's looking at), she laces her hands together on the tabletop. 

"The color isn't a stain," she says. "It's bloodwood. Extinct now, but they say when you cut it down it spilled sap the color and texture of human blood." 

"Interesting," Martin says. "What faith are these from? They don't look like they're Buddhist, or Tao." 

"They're from an offshoot of Judaism, actually. It was quite a fractious religion, and surprisingly large in scale. As far as I know, it's still alive, but only in small enclaves." 

Martin nods. The beads are quite lovely, and apparently in good condition. 

"What are these worth?" 

"Last time they were appraised? Enough to buy this ship and all the people inside it." 

"And antiques only appreciate over time," Martin says. "These will do nicely." 

The companion nods. "Good."

"We're on a bit of a schedule, so I'm afraid that redecorating the shuttle will have to wait," Martin says, standing. 

"That's alright," they say. "I'm in no rush." 

"Sasha, will you-" 

The companion stands, and Martin has to backtrack. "Not Sasha," he says. "Good lord. Sasha _James-Stoker_ , show... Not Sasha to a room, if you please." 

Sasha laughs, though not necessarily at him. 

"Come on, _Not Sasha._ The passenger quarters are just back this way." 

Martin shakes his head and turns to head back down to the cargo bay. To his surprise, Jon has left the kitchen, apparently silently. Odd, since they'd seemed to be interested in the negotiation. Or at least they'd been interested in .... Not Sasha. 

Martin sighs. It's as good a moniker as any, and leagues better than Tim's army nickname. 

Tim, ever the charismatic one, has picked up another pair of passengers. A person with a head of faded turquoise hair and a person with skin even darker than Sasha's. Their elbows are linked together. The blue-haired one has a cane extended towards Tim and a strip of adhesive cloth over their eyes. All three are laughing, so it's safe to assume that the cane isn't being used as a weapon. At least, right now. 

"Tim," Martin calls, taking the stairs at a decent pace. 

"Boss!" Tim waves a hand. 

"Passengers?" 

"Hell yeah," Tim says. "Boss, this is Melanie and Georgie." 

"Hi," says the one with blue hair. "I'm Melanie." 

"Georgie," says the other. They extend a hand. 

Martin takes it. 

"Good to meet you," he says. "What're your pronouns?" 

"She/her," says Georgie. Then, nodding to Melanie, "he uses she/him." 

Martin nods. "Good. We have accommodations for you, Melanie. Just let us know what you'll need." 

"Roger," she says. 

"Right," Martin says. "Tim, all set?" 

"All set," says Tim. 

"Good. Then let's get going," Martin says. "Tim, show our guests through to the kitchen; I'll collect everyone else." 

Tim throws him a salute, then turns to the others. "Alright, follow me." 

Heading through to the engine, Martin pokes his head in on Gerry. 

"Introductions in the kitchen," he says, and gets a grease-smudged thumbs up in return. The inked eyes on Gerry's knuckles almost look like they're winking at him. 

On his way back to the kitchen, Martin knocks on Jon's door. 

"Jon? introductions in the kitchen," he says. "I was hoping to learn our next destination as well." 

There's a shuffling behind the door, and Jon slides it open a moment later, stepping out into the hall. Martin can see the barest hint of a smile on its face. 

"Well, then," Jon says. "I suppose I'd better go with you, Captain." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Tim is a short king and no i will not be taking criticism)
> 
> How about that bonus ep, everyone? I find it hilarious that Ben Meredith is terrified of the sea (if you listen to RQG you'll know why I think it's so funny). Also, Alisdair Stuart has the exact energy that my dad has all of the time it's amazing,,, I also love Jonny's mom just. so much. 
> 
> If you liked this chapter, this fic, want to point out my obvious need to cause the maximum amount of chaos per chapter, or just want to say hi, drop a comment! 
> 
> \- Phoenix


	3. Chapter 3

It isn't long before they're in the air.

Instead of sticking around for the introductions, Jon headed up to the cockpit and keyed in their destination, promising to share the reasoning and the risks with Martin once they were on their way. Sasha barely glanced at it before nodding, saying she knew where she was going, and hitting the gas.

Martin, for his part, made sure that everyone was properly settled before stealing one of the last fresh apples out of the fridge. 

Jon sits down across from him as Martin's knife digs into the crisp pink skin of the apple. The gravity lags, and then kicks in with a jolt. 

Martin sighs, eating the slice of his apple right off the blade of the knife. 

"So," he says, because Jon is clearly waiting for him to start talking. "Tell me about this planet we're headed to." 

Jon folds its hands on the table deliberately. "It's mostly wasteland. Like desert, if desert averaged at a temperature too cold for snow." 

"And you think our boy is there?" 

"Elias? Unlikely," Jon says, tucking his hair behind his ear. Their braid is a mess. "But it's pretty obvious that his... benefactor owns the place." 

"I didn't know it was legal to own a planet these days," Martin says, crunching into another apple slice. 

"Not in name," Jon says. "But in practice, Jonah Magnus owns Oreithyia." 

With his first question answered, Martin's attention snags on something else. 

"Elias's 'benefactor'? What's that supposed to mean?" 

Jon's face darkens a shade, and he glances at the table before he looks back to Martin. 

"Elias and Jonah were....... involved. For some months leading to Elias's disappearance. Magnus is the primary suspect of my investigation." 

Martin nods thoughtfully. There's something about the way Jon's talking about that Bouchard boy, something about how their eyes keep darting around, landing anywhere but Martin's own steady gaze. 

Sinking his teeth into the last apple slice, Martin jams his knife point-down into the table. Sasha might kill him later, but it's worth it; he can see Jon's body go stock still. It's listening, properly. 

Martin takes a shot in the dark. "You weren't hired by Bouchard's family. Or, as that note suggests, the Lukas family." 

Jon is frozen where he sits, but Martin can almost see their heart pounding against the hollow of their throat. He pushes down the twist of guilt forming in his gut.

"The Bouchards are a powerful family on Calais," he says, waving a hand. "I happen to be from Calais as well. I know my father was something of an absentee from the council, but he told me enough stories." 

This is starting to leave a bad taste in his mouth, but Martin pushes on. The truth is worth more than a couple of bruises.

"And, see, my father told me enough about the Bouchard family for me to know that they could bring the entire Alliance down on anyone who fucked with them." 

Jon visibly bites down on a curse. Martin can almost see the calculations running in their head, the outer layer peeled back to reveal a cold, analytical aspect to the quiet detective. 

This time, Jon takes his own blind shot. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

For the first time, Jon meets his eyes dead on.

"Cérne Bouchard hired me to find his son," Jon says. Their tone is steady. Their hands stay on the table. 

With Jon's two-toned gaze leveled at him, a spark strikes in the back of Martin's brain. What was the old phrase for it ...? _deja vu._

Shaking off the uncanny familiarity, Martin picks at the inconsistencies. Sooner or later, something will unravel. 

"And he wrote you a note on Lukas family stationary?" 

A muscle works in Jon's jaw. Martin knows the feeling. 

Instead of passing, the silence stretches on for an uncomfortable length of time. As he and Jon stare each other down, Martin's deja vu turns to something else; a sense of being confronted with a thing you thought you'd forgotten. Jon becomes so damned familiar, but Martin's certain that they were strangers not a dozen hours ago. 

It's the first to break the silence. 

"The Lukases and the Bouchards have been growing closer in the years since -" 

"Bullshit," Martin says, cutting it off. "The Lukases aren't close with anyone. It's a point of pride." _Try again._

He doesn't say it. He isn't cruel, and Jon is obviously struggling at this point, but he'll be damned if there's any liar on his ship but himself. 

Before Jon can work up another answer, there's a rattle from the engine room and Gerry comes bounding into the kitchen. There's a smear of grease on his temple, and only half of his dyed-black hair is still in its tie. 

"Boss," he says, nodding to Martin in an uncanny impression of Tim. "The gravity should be fixed now. Won't be certain until next takeoff though." 

"Thanks, Gerry," Martin says. 

Gerry salutes, grabs a protein bar, and vanishes back down the corridor. 

When Martin looks back, Jon is disappearing up the steps towards its room. 

\--

Tim likes to cook. It's a good thing, because almost everyone seems happy to crowd around the scarred wooden table and spend an hour or so in each others' company. To Martin's practiced eye, the room is easy enough to read. 

Melanie and Georgie have ended up deep in conversation with Gerry, and Martin only catches the phrase "messing with the integrity of the gravitational field" before he decides that those three are probably going to keep each other occupied for the time being. That, or they'll leave the ship in so many pieces that it won't matter either way. 

What concerns him more is that Sasha, Not-Sasha, and Tim have all clumped together over a hand of street poker. Already the pot appears to be three earrings, a pendant, a handful of bullets, a tiny pot of waxy blue paint, and a slip of paper that can only be Tim's. Martin already has a sense of what the note says; Tim's collar is already open to the fourth button, revealing the edge of a twisted scar and a generous slice of honey colored skin. 

Martin should probably have confiscated the liquor. Or at least locked the cabinet. Tim usually didn't start betting clothes unless he was already two drinks in. 

Resigning himself to that ship having sailed, Martin turns his attention to the last passenger on his ship. 

Jon sits between the two groups, hands wrapped around a steaming cup, regarding Martin like a gangly, nervous owl. It remains quiet, and Martin isn't keen to push it. Instead he waves Gerry back to his conversation and starts cleaning up.

That's a tactical move, he thinks. Not a function of the way Jon's eyes are fixed on him with the electric fear of prey, backed into a corner. It's also not a function of the yellow light on their teakwood skin, or the wisps of hair that keep escaping their no-nonsense braid, or the ruthless, calculated aspect that had vanished once again. 

Besides, Martin thinks. It's a week yet to their next pit stop, and longer still to reach Oreithyia. He has plenty of time to dig up the truth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, dear readers. It's been *checks calendar* a whole month since my last update. Oops. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It caused me to have some epiphanies regarding backstory/plot points. You'll see :)
> 
> happy new year, everyone!
> 
> \- Phoenix


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